


right where you want me

by thisismydesignn



Category: Fast and the Furious Series, The Fate of the Furious (2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 13:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10765017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: Post-F8, Luke and Deckard finally get some time alone together. The inevitable ensues.





	right where you want me

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance for the many run-on sentences...and for the title inspired by Jesse McCartney's "Right Where You Want Me," because I am ridiculous.
> 
> Also: Ramsey definitely calls Deckard "Deck" at one point in the movie, so I'm taking that nickname as canon. And I apparently have a thing for Luke calling Deckard "princess," so Deckard now has a thing for it too. (Artistic license, or something?)

After New York, the team goes its separate ways (“’Til next time,” Dom says, Letty’s arm around his waist like she might never let go)—Dom and Letty to see Brian and Mia, Tej, Roman and Ramsey off to Monte Carlo and Nobody and Little Nobody to Nowhere—leaving Luke and Samantha with Deckard.  
  
_A week ago I wouldn’t have let him within a hundred feet of her,_ Hobbs thinks as he watches Shaw haul his suitcase into the plane’s overhead compartment, _but now…_  
  
Deckard tags along with them back to LA, making an offhand comment about getting a hotel; before Luke can stop to think, he finds himself saying, “Screw that. You’re staying with me.”  
  
Deckard and Sam are both looking at him like he’s lost his mind, but he just shrugs at Sam. “You’ll be at your mom’s.” To Deckard: “I’ve got plenty of room.” His expression doesn’t change.  
  
They drop Sam off and head to Luke’s house, an uncharacteristic quiet settling between them. Deckard’s barely spoken a word since they left the airport, glancing sidelong at Luke every few minutes, expression inscrutable, until Luke finally snaps, “There somethin’ I can help you with?”  
  
Shaw just chuckles and faces forward, pretending not to notice the way Luke’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.  
  
By the time they pull into the driveway, Luke’s starting to wonder what the hell he was thinking. Then Deckard is opening the trunk, slinging his bag over his shoulder and handing Luke his own with a comment about it being filled with rocks, and there’s something in the ease of it all, like he already belongs here, that makes Luke’s blood run hot—makes him realize that this was inevitable, that he knows _exactly_ what he’s gotten himself into.  
  
“You want a drink?” he asks once they get inside. Deck just _looks_ at him for a long moment, considering, and Luke’s about to rescind the offer when Deckard licks his lips and the retort dies on the tip of Luke’s tongue. “Yeah, alright.”  
  
They drink just enough to loosen up, the tension between them simmering down to a bearable hum, before Shaw asks for the tour.  
  
He’d never really expected to make it to the bedroom. All things considered, this—standing across from one another in Luke’s makeshift basement gym—makes more sense than that ever would. Deckard’s got that look on his face once more, that glint in his eye, and Hobbs can’t help but push it, because of course he can’t. “You got something to say, princess?”  
  
Deckard’s gaze flickers, just for a moment; it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he lifts his arms, gesturing at their surroundings. “It’s just the two of us,” he says, echoing Luke’s words. His arms fall back to his sides. “No one else around.”  
  
“At last,” Hobbs agrees, voice low, gaze dropping from Shaw’s eyes to his lips, watching hungrily as they curve into a smirk—a challenge.  
  
“What are you gonna do?”  
  
And then Luke is on Deckard, hands on either side of his face, dragging him up into a kiss that’s rough enough to split Deckard’s lip. He’s not complaining—grins into the kiss, tasting the tang of metal on his tongue as he pushes right back, tempting Luke to resist. Within moments he feels his back hit the wall, licks into Luke’s mouth and fits a thigh between his legs, pressing forward, pulling Luke closer.  
  
Luke loves this, he can tell; so accustomed to regulating his strength so as not to _break_ his partner, he has no such qualms where Deckard is concerned. Deck can already feel the bruises forming beneath his skin, blood rising to the surface as moans fall from his lips to Luke’s. He kisses like he does everything else—like it’s a competition, like there’s a winner, and Shaw is almost ( _almost_ ) happy to let him think he’s it.  
  
For his part, Deck’s used to relying on finesse, on strategy, on deliberate moves to coax the reaction he wants from his partner—but not this time. Luke makes him feel like he’s been set alight, careful calculations gone haywire, but he’ll be damned before he’ll let him claim the upper hand.  
  
Luke ducks his head to press his lips, teeth to Deckard’s neck, making him shudder as he works at getting Luke’s pants open. He’s already halfway to hard by the time Deckard wraps a hand around him, jerking him steadily; Luke groans and Shaw looks down at his cock slipping through his fist, thinking, _god, I want you in my mouth_.  
  
Half a moment later he catches the look on Luke’s face and realizes— “I said that aloud, didn’t I?” Under his breath: “Fuck.”  
  
Luke answers him with another kiss, hands heavy on Deckard’s shoulders. He goes to his knees without hesitation, tugging Luke’s pants to mid-thigh, mouthing at the head of his dick before taking it in, lips stretched around his length. No teasing, no taking his time—they’ve both waited long enough.  
  
He sucks as he dips his head low and pulls back, tongue pressing hard to a vein on the underside of Luke’s cock, savoring the moan that slips through, the bitten-off _fuck_ Luke can’t quite hold back. Deck’s relentless, taking Luke in until he hits the back of his throat. He sits back just before he chokes, breathes, looks up at Luke like a challenge and sinks his mouth right back down around him once more.  
  
“You look good like that, princess,” Luke tells him, voice catching somewhere between insulting and affectionate. He hears, _feels_ Shaw moan around him, vibrations setting his thighs trembling; he settles a hand on the back of Deckard’s head as he asks, “You like that, huh?” Deck nods as best he can, dipping his head lower to show him exactly how much.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Hobbs says again after a minute, amazed Shaw hasn’t come back up for air, “I could come like this,” and at that he does pull off, lips shining. “Not yet, Sasquatch.” He sits back, licks his lips, wipes his mouth. “Not until you fuck me.”  
  
It’s not a question, not a request—not that Luke’s response would be anything other than _fuck yes_ if it were. He drags Shaw up to kiss the taste of himself off his lips, hand between his legs, gratified to find that Deckard’s just as hard as he is. “We’re both wearing too many clothes,” he tells him when they break apart, and Deckard can’t disagree.  
  
They undress quickly, each man trying, just for a moment, to keep his hands to himself. Still, Luke can’t help but press searching fingers to Shaw’s chest as he strips down, touching more bare skin than he’s ever seen Deckard reveal. He traces the scars on his arms, his chest, and Deckard tenses, though he doesn't pull away; Luke wonders about the stories behind each, but knows now’s not the time to ask. He presses him back to the wall instead, hands impossibly large on his waist, the curve of his ass. “You got stuff?” Deckard holds up a foil packet, a small bottle of lube, retrieved from the pocket of his jeans before discarding them moments earlier. “Good,” Hobbs says, not letting himself think about how _prepared_ Deckard was, not even daring to mock him for it—not yet, anyway. “Turn around.”  
  
The set of Deckard’s body says _make me_ , and Luke can't help but grin as he manhandles him into position. Even (especially?) now, when neither of them can deny how badly they want this, they can't help but turn everything into a competition, a struggle for the upper hand.  
  
Deck’s not struggling now, hands flat on the wall in front of him as Luke coats his fingers in lube and presses in to open him up. One to start, a second following only moments later; Deckard’s already breathing hard, reaching back to curl his fingers around Luke’s hip, the heat of his skin keeping him anchored. Luke’s free hand splays across the small of Deckard’s back, bending him further forward, fingers unrelenting as he works him open, presses deeper until he finds his prostate, feels his body jolt, listens to him gasp.  
  
Deckard’s hand slips from Luke’s hip to his wrist, holding him in place— “I'm ready, I've fucking _been_ ready,” and Hobbs obliges because he's too far gone to even feign argument at this point. He pulls back, rips open the foil packet of the condom and tells Deckard to get on his hands and knees.  
  
Luke pauses for just a moment as he slicks up his cock, admiring the view; for all his threats, he’d never anticipated seeing Deckard quite this vulnerable, exposed, fingers curled around the edge of the mat as he rocks back, desperate. “Oi,” he says, breath catching, “What’s the hold up?” Then Luke’s hands are back on him, cock sliding in—all at once, and it’s almost too much but it’s—  
  
“That’s— _fuck_ , that’s good,” Deckard pants, hand moving between his legs as Luke pulls back, thrusts in, doesn’t pause to let him catch his breath and at this moment, Shaw might almost believe that Hobbs knows what he needs better than he does himself.  
  
Luke thinks, half-coherently, about pushing Deckard’s hand aside, making him come on his cock alone, but he’s too caught up to do anything but replace Deck’s hand with his own instead, keeping him caught between his hips and his touch, just this side of overwhelmed.  
  
Deckard doesn’t even seem to notice the noises falling from his lips as he presses back to meet Luke’s thrusts. “Shit, if I had known this was all it’d take to shut you up,” Luke starts, has to stop, to catch his breath, hearing (feeling) Deckard huff out a laugh beneath him. “What was that?” Shaw asks, tone teasing; he’s rewarded with a particularly sharp thrust that has him dropping his head, cursing, hips jerking into Luke’s hand as he asks (begs) for _more_.  
  
Luke gives it to him. He doesn’t bother holding back, confident that Deckard will tell him to stop, tap out, if it’s too much, confident that there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen. Deckard’s noises grow louder, his grip on the mat tighter with each thrust; Luke lets go of his cock, grits out, “Touch yourself,” watches Deckard oblige without question and focuses on the only thing that matters—making him come.  
  
It doesn’t take long. Two thrusts, three, and Deck is spilling over his own fingers and onto the mat beneath them with a moan that’ll fuel Luke’s fantasies for months. He holds himself up with trembling limbs, holds out until Luke follows suit, hands gripping Deckard’s hips hard enough to bruise as he lets go. Luke’s breath is warm on the sweat-slick skin of Deckard’s back, and he gives in to the urge to press a kiss between his shoulder blades before he pulls away, pulls out, both of them biting back groans at the loss.  
  
Luke ties off the condom and sets it aside before collapsing onto his back, still trying to catch his breath; beside him, Shaw follows suit. They’re not quite touching, but as spent, sated as they are, the proximity is—momentarily—enough.  
  
“I knew you wanted my ass,” Deckard says after a moment, breaking the silence as he stares up at the ceiling, voice accusatory and amused all at once. “You just wouldn’t shut up about it…”  
  
“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t kept riling me up,” Luke mutters; “We never would’ve gotten anywhere,” Deckard bites back, and Hobbs can hear the smile in his voice. He turns his head and Deck mirrors the movement, their eyes meeting for a long moment before Deckard leans in, closing the distance between them with a kiss.  
  
Luke raises an eyebrow when they part. “What?” Deckard asks, all bruised lips and feigned innocence. “You looked like you needed it.”  
  
“We both needed _that_ ,” Luke says as he sits up, surveying the floor around them, the mess they’ve made. He should clean it up. Instead he opts for turning back to Deckard, covering his body with his own, pressing him back onto the mat and kissing him _properly_ , observing with no small sense of pride the flush rising in Deck’s skin when he pulls back.  
  
“Get up,” Luke tells him. At Deckard’s look, he elaborates, “I do actually have a bed, and let me tell you, it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than the floor.” Shaw just smirks, holding out before he obliges, because he still can’t help but antagonize the man. He glances around the room instead, commenting, “You know, you still owe me a fight.”  
  
Hobbs thinks about this; thinks about how that fight would’ve ended only days ago (Shaw flat on his back, bleeding, barely breathing), about how it would end now (his fingers around Deckard’s wrists as he holds him down, pins him to the ground and fucks into him hard, watching his eyes darken before falling shut, one hand digging bruises into Luke’s side as the other wraps around the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, teeth catching on his lower lip). “You’re on. Anytime, little man. I’ll go right now.”  
  
“ _Little_?”  
  
Luke chuckles. Of _course_ that’s what he gets stuck on, but to be fair— “I may have to revisit that assessment.” Deckard’s acceptance of this is begrudging at best.  
  
Luke gets to his feet, holding out his hand to help Deckard up. He’s still (in spite of the past week, in spite of everything that just happened) the slightest bit amazed when he takes it, and pulls him in for a kiss before letting go. “I’m gonna clean up,” he tells him, but presses momentarily closer instead, murmuring, “I’ll meet you upstairs,” as he fits his hips to Deck’s, leaving no room for doubt about what he has in mind.  
  
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Deckard warns, and Luke looks away so Deck can’t see him grin. “I’ll give you a head start, old man,” he says, turning back just in time to slap Deckard’s ass as he starts toward the stairs.  
  
“That ass is mine now,” he comments (half-kidding, not kidding at all) when Deckard turns around, eyebrows raised.  
  
“Don’t push it, Hercules.” It’s not a denial, and Luke would swear he catches the beginnings of a smirk. He knows it’s as close to a concession as he’s ever gonna get.  
  
He’ll take the win.


End file.
